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Tuesday, November 26, 2013

‘Ha
ha!’ Sara hooted. ‘See how we wasted all our money, effort, agony and support
trying to get Chipolopolo into the World Cup. And instead along comes
Shepolopolo with an effortless smile, trounces everybody and off they go. See how
they have quietly shamed all the noisy, pompous and useless men!

‘Shush,’
laughed Kupela, ‘We women are supposed to pretend that our men are superior. It
is our job to make them feel strong and powerful. Soccer is supposed to be a
man’s game, and our job is just to wash and iron their football shirts and…’

‘Wash
their football shirts!’ Sara cackled, ‘Hardly any of them play! Ten thousand go
to the stadium to watch twenty-two men kick a ball up and down. Another fifty
thousand watch on television. They cheer it, pay for it, discuss it, celebrate
their victories with beer, mourn their losses with beer, but they don’t play
it! Most of them are too fat and unfit to play it! If the Minister of Sport had
the ball at his feet, he wouldn’t even be able to see it! The plain fact is
that they’re no good at it. But when we put together a team of eleven young
women – off they go to the World Cup!’

‘It
was because they had a male coach,’ I said.

‘What
do you know about it?’ scoffed Sara. ‘I’m giving you a red card!’

‘The
way our society works,’ said Kupela, ‘our female role is to support our men,
and make them feel successful and powerful. They run the government, they are
the heads of household, they take the decisions. When they secretly feel
uncertain and incapable, and get in an awful mess, but try not to show it, it’s
our job to believe in them, console them, and tell them they are men, strong
and clever. Now along come these Shepolopolo and upset everything, showing that
women are better at the man’s own game! It puts the rest of us in an awkward
position! Especially if we are caught laughing!’

‘Don’t
upset yourself,’ I sneered, ‘one football game won’t overturn our traditional
patriarchy. We men are quite safe.’

‘You
don’t know what you’re talking about,’ snapped Sara. ‘There never was
traditional patriarchy. I know from what my grandmother Sibongile told me about
village life in pre-colonial days. It was the women who were in charge of the
men!’

‘Poof,’
I laughed. ‘How did they manage that?’

‘They
produced the food, and cooked it in the matriarchal cooking pot, and therefore they
controlled the production and distribution of resources.’

‘But
the men were bigger and stronger.’

‘Not
when they only got their fair share from the cooking pot. They were much
smaller then. Their only useful function was fertilization. Otherwise they were
sent away for the useless men’s games, such as fighting each other, hunting,
stealing cattle, and so on.

‘Huh,’
I said. ‘How exactly did the women control them?’

‘In
those days their games were very dangerous, so there weren’t many to control.
That’s how polygamy started, because men were outnumbered. Men were controlled by
the matriarchal cooking pot. Herbs and special muti were used to help them
provide sexual services when specially needed. But the pot also produced beer
and kachasu to put them to sleep when not needed. All sorts of feasts and
festivities were invented to keep them drunk most of the time, so that the
women could get on with their work in peace. The women had their own nsaka, or
parliament, where they could discuss the problems of men who had become a
nuisance, and also agree on suitable punishment – such as banishment to another village, or
even to live alone in the forest. In those days the playful men were under control,
and the village was rich and prosperous, and starvation was unheard of.’

‘Oh
yes,’ I sneered. ‘And how did this matriarchal utopia suddenly disappear?’

‘A
terrible catastrophe hit the land!’

‘Oh
yes? What was that? An earthquake? Volcanic eruption? Tornado?’

‘Worse
than that,’ said Sara solemnly. ‘The Europeans arrived.’

‘I
heard about that,’ I said. ‘They brought development.’

‘They
brought disaster,’ she replied grimly. ‘They came from a patriarchal society.
When the Europeans saw men being ruled by women they were appalled. They vowed
to stay in the country until they had changed the whole system, and the men
ruled the women.’

‘So
how did they do that?’ wondered Kupela.

‘They
came with their own patriarchal cooking pot, to cook up a different form of
government.’

‘And
what was in the pot?’

‘A
completely new system of social organization: Schools; wage employment; civil
service; army; parliament; ministers; beer halls; soccer games. A new public
domain of control. These were the essential ingredients of the patriarchal
cooking pot.’

‘No
food in the patriarchal cooking pot?’

‘No.
It was more ideological than gastronomical.’

‘And
the pot was only for men?’

‘Exactly.
The public domain was only for men, and women were kept out. Women had to stay in
the home and in the village, which became the domestic domain. This foreign
system was called colonial government, and it’s aim was to put men in charge.’

‘And
did the Europeans succeed?’

‘It
took them sixty years, but they successfully disempowered and subordinated the
women, and put the men in charge. Having fully established this male colonial
government, they left in 1964. All record of women’s earlier dominance was expunged
from the history books.’

‘But
today, at this late stage,’ wondered Kupela, ‘can we still return to our old
traditional values, our earlier prosperity, and chase these hopeless playful men
out of government?’

‘Of
course we can!’ declared Sara. ‘And the revolution has already begun with the
famous victory of our brave sisters, the heroic Shepolopolo!’

Tuesday, November 19, 2013

‘I feel sorry
for Stiffen Mususha,’ said Kupela. ‘One minute he’s an honorable minister and
the next minute he’s a dishonorable scoundrel.’

‘Half
a minute,’ I said, ‘he had a forged certificate saying he was qualified as an accountant,
when in fact he was only qualified as an acrobat.’

‘That’s
not true,’ said Kupela. ‘He had a certificate from NIPA saying that he had been
awarded a DA. It was not his fault if his employers didn’t know that NIPA stood
for National Institute for Performing Arts, and that his DA was a Diploma in
Acrobatics rather than Accountancy.’

‘Huh,’
I scoffed. ‘He willfully deceived them.’

‘It
was their fault if they didn’t check with NIPA. Maybe his employers knew very
well what they were doing. Some of them deliberately recruit acrobats into
their accountancy department to turn the books upside down, so that profit
turns into loss. Such creative accounting is just like high wire acrobatics;
everybody laughs and cheers as the acrobat walks off with their money. The
copper mines all pay high salaries to acrobatic accountants.’

‘But
he cheated.’

‘Really
Daddy,’ laughed Kupela. ‘Accountants are employed to cheat the ZRA. How can you
criticize him for having the most important basic qualification?’

‘Well,
he was not fit to be an honorable minister!’

‘None of them are honorable!’ laughed Kupela. ‘The
only difference between him and the other ministers was that he actually qualified
to do the job he was given. As Minister of Acrobatics, he was the only minister
with a relevant certificate. And his acrobatics was so good that he could walk
on his hands just as well as on his feet, and so convincingly that nobody was
quite sure which end was which, or which end he was talking out of. And when he
joined a dancing queen on the dance floor he was so acrobatic that nobody could
tell which was the dancing queen and which was the minister, especially when the
two of them were thoroughly entwined in his famous Erotic Dance of Ecstatic
Coition.’

‘I
don’t care how you try to twist the argument,’ I growled, ‘we don’t want people
who cheat and deceive to get into politics.’

‘Hah!’
Kupela hooted. ‘Now your argument has become ridiculous! There’s no other way
of getting into politics. Don’t you know that the election victory of the
Punching Fist was achieved by pure fraud?’

‘Really?’
I said. ‘You mean Michael Sata doesn’t have a Standard Four Certificate?’

‘I
wouldn’t know about that,’ she laughed. ‘But I do know that the PF Manifesto
was Perfect Fraud.’

‘On
the contrary,’ I said, ‘the Punching Fist Manifesto was a very straightforward
statement of what they intended to do when they got into office. And they’re
making progress. Where’s the fraud?’

‘It’s
all in the other one, the Perfect Fraud Manifesto!’

‘I’ve
never seen that one!’ I laughed.

‘Nobody
ever has! The Punching Fist Manifesto was seen but not heard. The Perfect Fraud
Manifesto was heard but not seen. It was proclaimed from the anthill.’

‘And
that made it fraud?’

‘It
kept changing, from one anthill to the next. At least Mususha kept the same
certificate and stuck by it. He didn’t keep changing it, or producing new ones wherever
he went.’

‘But
why do you call this anthill manifesto Perfect Fraud’

‘At
each venue it changed according to what people wanted to hear. It didn’t depend
on principles, but only longitude and latitude.’

‘Oh
yes they are!’ cackled Kupela. ‘It’s common in government for the issuing
authority to change a certificate. Nowadays you can apply to the ACC to get a
certificate certifying that you’re immune from investigation for corruption.
This is a very valuable certificate, and a great honor conferred by the highest
authority, and it automatically and vastly increases your earning capacity - far
more so than a mere Ph.D.’

‘You’re
confusing two things,’ I said. ‘What you’re talking about is a license, not a
certificate. A license can be granted or withdrawn at the discretion of the
issuing authority, depending on your behaviour. For example, a radio station
license can be withdrawn if the station makes the mistake of interviewing an
opposition party leader. But a certificate cannot be withdrawn.’

‘Nonsense,’
snorted Kupela. ‘A certificate is just the same! In fact, after NIPA issued
Mususha with his certificate, they were the very same ones who withdrew it!’

‘But
that was because he used it for accountancy instead of acrobatics!’

‘But
now he had become an honorable minister,’ retorted Kupels, ‘so they could have
given him an honorary doctorate in accountancy if they had wanted to!’

‘How
can an institute of acrobatics confer a doctorate in accountancy?’

‘The
folly of institutes and universities,’ sneered Kupela, ‘knows no bounds. I
remember one former president who had a certificate that was a complete fraud,
but a university solved the problem by giving him an honorary doctorate in law.’

‘You’ve
got the story wrong again,’ I laughed. ‘The certificate you’re talking about
was not a fraud, it was a genuine certificate and properly gained. The only
problem was that he had changed his name to fit the name on the certificate,
which didn’t belong to him.’

‘So,’
said Kupela slowly, ‘it wasn’t the certificate that was a fraud, it was him!’

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

‘This breakfast
is terrible,’ said Christine, as she looked up from her morning newspaper.
‘Even the mealie-meal porridge isn’t properly cooked.’

‘Huh,’
growled Michael, as he scowled at his i-pad, ‘You’re the one in charge of the
kitchen, I’ve got the whole country to run.’

‘That’s
the problem,’ said Christine. ‘Your party cadres have taken over the kitchen.
Those women from Petauke were all excellent cooks, but last week they were chased by a gang of your party thugs. And your cardres are useless, all they can cook is
chicken and nshima, and the nshima is lumpy.’

‘Look,
Christine,’ said Michael, putting his head in his hands, ‘For Christ sake give
me a break. I have the whole country to run, and all you can do is complain
about the kitchen staff.’

‘Excuse
me,’ said Christine. ‘An ignorant gang of your party thugs armed with pangas
have taken over my kitchen, and you’re telling me it’s nothing to do with you?
Then tell me, who is the one responsible?’

‘Try
to understand,’ he said, looking up grimly from the bad news on Watchdog, ‘We
promised in our manifesto to give jobs to unemployed youths…’

‘Did
you promise to put them in my kitchen?’ asked Christine, her voice rising.

‘You
don’t understand these things,’ growled Michael. ‘The president’s kitchen is of
the highest strategic importance. The previous cooks were a security risk, all of
them were MMD stalwarts who could have poisoned me. We promised in our
manifesto to put our faithful party members in all the important government
positions.’

‘From
what you say,’ sneered Christine, ‘it seems that the only promises you
have kept are the silly ones. And as for poisoning,’ she said, prodding her
finger disdainfully into the cold grey porridge, ‘I may already be in need of a
stomach pump.’

‘I’m
not willing to listen to this kichen tittle-tattle anymore!’ shouted Michael, ‘If
you’ve got any more questions about party matters, go and talk to Splinter
Kapimbe, he’s the one in charge of party matters. I have important matters of
state to attend to.’

‘Such
as what?’ she wondered. ‘Everyday you spend hours up there in your office, with
a long queue of people waiting. What are you doing all the time?’

‘They’re
all looking for jobs, and waving the damn manifesto in my face. Even you, I’ve
got your latest list of twenty-four nieces and nephews looking for jobs in the
foreign service.’

‘Each
embassy,’ said Christine, ‘has a first secretary, a second secretary and a
third secretary.’

‘I
know that,’ he growled. ‘All the vacancies have been filled.’

‘But
you could have a first assistant to the first secretary, and a second assistant
to the first secretary and so on. Then a first assistant to the second
secretary and a second assistant to the second secretary and a …

‘Well
done, my dear, I'd never thought of that. I’m sorry I shouted at you. You really are my best advisor. I’ll
make an announcement later this morning that I have just created another
thousand jobs…’

But
as they were talking there was a terrible racket of shouting and banging from
the kitchen, and then running into the breakfast room came a gang of ruffians
wielding kitchen knives and rolling pins! Crash! They went out as fast as they came in, straight through
the French windows. They were closely followed by a rival gang of murderous
looking thugs wielding pangas and carrying a coffin, who also disappeared
through the same French windows shouting ‘Fipayefye!
Fipayefye!’

‘So
how do you explain that!’ shouted Christine. ‘Fipayefye? Is that why they’re called the PF?’

‘Never mind them,’ said Michael. ‘Just ignore them. Splinter knows what he’s doing. Perhaps he’s cleansing
the party from anti-party elements that have infiltrated from the opposition.
Or maybe it’s normal militia training. Or it could just be rival party factions
quarreling over the food in the kitchen…’

But
as he spoke, his phone rang. ‘His Excellency here,’ replied Michael. ‘What …
The B-Team has taken over the airport? … Ten people dead? What do you expect me
to do? This is State House, not a funeral parlour … You sort it out or I’ll
sort you out!’

Michael
turned to his wife. ‘That Sillyman Jelly has lost control of his bowels again!
Why is asking me for instructions?’

‘I
thought that’s why you appointed him,’ said Christine.

Again
the phone rang. ‘His Excellency here … What? … the C-Team has captured Soweto
Market … Receiving reports of a massacre? … Just arrest them for spreading
false rumours calculated to cause general alarm and despondency … And don’t
disturb me again, I’m preparing for my Weekly Announcement of New
Appointments!’

‘I
thought that’s why you appointed her,’ said Christine. ‘But what on Earth is
going on? The B-Team taking over the airport and the C-Team taking over the
markets? Is this a panga government? I see that your man Splinter is not called
Splinter for nothing! The entire country is falling apart!’

‘Don’t
worry,’ said Michael, completely unperturbed. ‘It’s nothing like that. The
party is just practicing for Splinter’s new constitution, when the A-Team will
be in charge of State House, the B-Team in charge of parliament, the C-team in
charge of the Supreme Court and the …

‘And
the panga in charge of everybody!’ said Christine irritably, as she stood up
and folded her napkin.

‘Are
you off?’ asked Michael. ‘Where are you going?’

‘I
just thought,’ she said, ‘I should go and have a look at the progress on building our retirement house.’

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

On
board the Challenger jet sat the A-Team in all their impressive glory. In the
centre of the aircraft, on his gold-plated throne, sat the Leader of the
A-Team, His Excellency Cycle Mata. On his right, on a little wooden stool, sat
his Minister for Nonsense and Disasters, Wobbly Dotty Scotty. On his left,
sitting on the toilet, was the Smelly Hatchet Man, the frightening Splinter
Kapimbe.

‘Well,’
said Cycle Mata, ‘Why are we going to Mansa, what’s the problem there?’

‘By-election,’
said Hatchet Man. ‘The forces of darkness and evil are plotting to take over
the entire constituency by capturing votes which rightly belong to the Punching
Fist. The opposition has been using Mansa Community Radio to claim that the PF is
really the Bufi Party.’

‘So
what’s our plan?’ said Cycle Mata.

‘We
could offer to supply electricity to all the local primary schools,’ suggested Dotty
Scotty.

‘The
answer is simple,’ snarled Hatchet Man. ‘We just declare a state of emergency,
lock up the opposition and cancel all by-elections.’

‘Too
grand a plan,’ cackled Cycle Mata, ‘I’m saving that one for later. This is just
a preliminary operation. We shall just move in quickly, cancel the radio
station license and arrest the station manager on suspicion of drug trafficking.
Dotty, go and ask the pilot for our expected time of arrival so I can make some
preliminary arrangements.’

Two
minutes later Dotty Scotty came wobbling back from the pilot’s cabin, his face
even more pale than usual. ‘There’s nobody there!’

‘What
are you talking about, you old fool!’ shouted Cycle Mata.

‘The
cabin is empty. His parachute is missing.’

‘He’s
Bemba,’ said Hatchet Man darkly. ‘He’s joined the B-Team.’

‘But
look at those clouds all around us,’ said Cycle Mata, as he looked out of the
window. ‘We’re still up in the air!’

Dotty
Scotty peered out of the window. ‘Those clouds are not moving!’ But even as he
spoke, the clouds cleared and they could see that the plane was sitting on dry
land.

And
so they stepped down from the Challenger, only to find no welcoming party, no
salutes, no bootlickers, no dancing girls and no party thugs. Over in the
distance they could see a queue of people going through a large gate. A gateman
seemed to be in charge.

‘Iwe
malonda, bwela!’ shouted Cycle Mata rudely at the gateman, as the old man in a
long white beard came slowly over. ‘Iwe, mudala, where is the DC, where is the
Paramount Chief Mwata Kazembe, where is our convoy of Mercedes?’

‘No,
no, no,’ said the old man. ‘It looks like your plane must have crashed. I am St
Peter, and you have arrived at the Pearly Gates of Heaven!’

Now
Cycle turned to whisper to his two chola boys. ‘This is the Master Plan we
need. If we can just get in to see God he can work a few miracles for us. Put
money in Mansa pockets. Give them jobs overnight. Put nurses and medicines in
the clinics. All the things we promised in ninety days, nice Old God can do it
for us in a flash of lightening. This could be the solution to all our problems!
We can win the by-election after all!’

So
now Cycle Mata turned to the gateman, ‘Well malonda, or whatever you call
yourself, just let us in through your Pearly Gate so we can go and talk to your
Paramount Chief. People of our stature can’t waste time talking to the malonda
at the gate!’

‘I’m
in charge of issuing visas,’ said St Peter calmly. ‘You have to apply
beforehand. Some people wait years to get in here. Even Archbishop Milungu has
been waiting more than ten years.’

‘Piffle
and nonsense my man,’ sneered Dotty Scotty. ‘Look at that crowd of people just
walking in straight through the gate. I don’t see any sign of visas!’

‘They
are poor people from Zambia,’ explained St Peter. ‘We have a special Memorandum
of Understanding with their Ministry of Health to let them straight in. They
are innocent souls who have suffered enough, and automatically qualify for
Heaven. For them all visa requirements have been waived.’

‘Ha
ha,’ scoffed Hatchet Man, ‘We’re also from Zambia. And we’re not just Zeds like
those bedraggled ruffians and street kids, we are the A-Team!’

‘A-Team?’
wondered St Peter. ‘What does this ‘A’ stand for?’

‘We
are at the top!’ explained Dotty Scotty. ‘Those Zeds are at the bottom! We are
the ruling class! We have diplomatic passports, we don’t even need visas! We
have all the privileges! We have the money and the power!’

‘It
is easier,’ said St Peter, ‘for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle
than for a rich man to enter into the Kingdom of Heaven.’

Dotty
Scotty whispered under this breath ‘These damn villagers talk in riddles.’ But
turning to St Peter he said ‘Look, old chap, let’s do a deal. You give us the
visas and we’ll give you the contract for the new road from Chama to Mongu.
Half the contract price up front! How’s that?’

‘Oh?’
said St Peter. ‘Why didn’t you say that was the sort of deal you’re looking
for? Then you’ve come to the wrong place. Let me explain to you where to go.
You see those stone steps over there at the edge of the cliff. Walk over to
those steps and keep going down until you reach the place where such
arrangements are organized.’

[Partly based on a storyline
suggestion from facebooker Nelson Langford Ndhlovu]